


The Colors of His Palette

by Mums_the_Word



Category: White Collar
Genre: Auras, FBI Manhunt, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Psychic Abilities, Ransom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-26
Updated: 2016-06-01
Packaged: 2018-07-10 08:19:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6975205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mums_the_Word/pseuds/Mums_the_Word
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things had grown very uncomfortable between handler and CI. When Neal suddenly disappears, Peter is convinced that he has run. That judgmental mindset may cost Neal his life.</p><p>Takes place during Season 5. Follows canon up to a point, but then takes on a life of its own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Prologue

     Neal was weak and thirsty, and his body hurt everywhere. They had worked him over pretty good during those first days, not that it was necessary, but rather because they could. He couldn’t remember how long ago that was, or when the last sporadic bottle of water had been tossed his way in this dismal place. He had been more alert then, scrutinizing what he was sure was to become his own personal crypt. It was a small, square space lined with damp cinder block walls, and the heavy-linked chain around his right wrist was still attached to the ring embedded in the concrete. During what he perceived as the daylight hours, small cracks around the periphery of the enclosure allowed in a hint of illumination. He saw that the extremely low ceiling in his prison was unique, consisting of a series of rusted gears and cogged wheels, one intermeshing with another. It reminded him of some of those intricate screen savers that people installed on their computers.

     Neal knew that he was growing more and more debilitated, and had come to accept the premise that he would die here, ignominiously abandoned and alone. He had made a sort of peace with it, and, with that feeling of acceptance, his mind settled. He drifted in and out of consciousness, and during one brief period of lucidity, he stared in fascination at a tiny blinking light that wafted just above him. Ah, a firefly, the synapses in his brain told him. He remembered chasing them through grass damp with evening dew when he was a child. He’d capture them in his small hands and put them into an empty mayonnaise jar, its metal lid perforated with holes so that they could breathe. He remembered his mother laughing, and that was a welcome sound because, with time, she had stopped laughing.

     Then the tiny insect’s blinking midsection ushered in another memory from early childhood. Neal’s mother had taken him to a neighborhood children’s theatre to see a play—“Peter Pan.” He recalled being captivated with the mischievous miniature pixie with the unlikely name of Tinkerbell. She was Peter’s devoted little groupie who lit up the stage with her beautiful magical glow. At one point in the story, Tinkerbell was captured by the evil Captain Hook and imprisoned in a lantern. Peter would not be coming to rescue her. In fact, Peter had forsaken his once best friend because he had stopped believing in her.

     Tinkerbell’s light had slowly begun to dim, signifying that she was dying. From somewhere off-stage, a narrator urged the youngsters in the audience to help save poor abandoned Tinkerbell.

      “If you believe in pixies and fairies and their magic,” he pleaded, “clap your hands.”

     Of course, little hands, Neal’s included, immediately came together. As the din increased in the audience, Tinkerbell’s light stopped fading and began to grow stronger. Someone believed in her, and that was what ultimately restored her strength and saved her life.

     Neal’s final thought as he slipped from consciousness for the last time was, “Please, please, somebody out there, clap your hands!”

 

 

Several Months Earlier

     Neal strolled nonchalantly into the White Collar office twenty minutes after 9 AM. Lately, he had been making it a habit to arrive well after the normal start of an FBI day to see just how far he could push the envelope before his new handler would take exception and deliver a reprimand. David Siegel was still an unknown wildcard to Neal. He had appeared on the scene a few weeks after Peter had paid a surprise visit to Neal’s loft and delivered a new updated anklet along with the ominous mandate of a redefined relationship between himself and Neal.

     In truth, Neal had been blindsided. He had always considered Peter to be his rock through thick and thin, and when his mentor was unjustly imprisoned for the sin of Neal’s father, well, it was a no-brainer. Neal would do whatever he had to do to make it right while keeping Peter in the dark about his serendipitous reversal of fortune. However, in the end, it seemed all that Neal’s good-intentioned efforts had gained him was Peter’s distrust and thinly veiled hostility. It really cut deep when Peter labeled Neal a criminal rather than a friend, and revealed that he needed to pull away because his CI was responsible for clouding his moral judgment.

     Neal took it on the chin without flinching. He would never allow Peter to see the raw hurt. He reasoned that he didn’t have much time left to serve out the rest of his indentured parole to the FBI. So, there was a light at the end of the tunnel, and he was determined to reach it and close this tumultuous chapter of his life. When that time came, he would start fresh, unencumbered with guilt or remorse. He had been betrayed and kicked to the curb before, and he had survived. So, he could do it again!

     Neal sat the to-go cup of coffee atop his desk and looked around at the empty bullpen. It seemed like the whole team, Siegel included, was congregated in the second floor conference room along with Peter. In the crowded space, Neal could just barely make out a tiny, white-haired woman seated at the conference table. Eventually, about an hour and a half later, Clinton Jones escorted the stranger slowly down the steps and out to the elevators. The diminutive lady moved gingerly, as if her joints were stiff, and she held tight to Jones’ forearm while looking straight ahead. However, when she came abreast of Neal’s desk, she suddenly stopped and turned her head curiously. She gave Neal a long, piercing look before a small, hesitant smile formed on her lips. She said nothing, and in a few seconds resumed the tedious trek towards the elevators.

     Not long after, Siegel made his own way down to Neal’s desk, and, if he was aware of the con man’s earlier tardiness, he made no mention of it. Their new partnership was still in its infancy, so their interactions were tentative. Since he had come on the job, Siegel had kept Neal at arm’s length. He had not taken his new partner with him on any ops, preferring to saddle him with piles of old mortgage fraud cases. Now, new file folders were again plopped atop the others, so Neal knew that meant it was another desk-bound day.

     “So,” Neal queried, “what’s with the geriatric visitor this morning?”

     “Oh, that little powwow upstairs was really nothing,” Siegel claimed.

     “I take that to mean that it is on a ‘need to know basis,’ and I don’t need to know. Does that about sum it up?” Neal remarked placidly without any sarcasm evident in his tone.

     However, Neal’s words appeared to make Siegel a bit uncomfortable. The new agent seemed suddenly embarrassed, perhaps regretting his terse answer to Neal’s innocent question. He and Neal were literally two strangers who still didn’t have each other figured out yet. The last thing the recent transfer wanted to do was to set an antagonistic tone, so he perched on the edge of Neal’s desk and clued his CI in on the recent activities.

     “That lady’s name is Adele Hayworth, and she claims to be a psychic who had something to offer about the kidnapping that we are investigating,” Siegel said with a shrug of his shoulders.

     Neal was aware of the current dynamic case involving the abduction of a telecommunications tycoon from his 5th Avenue apartment three days ago. The family had discretely paid the exorbitant ransom demanded by those supposedly holding him captive, but, as yet, the man was still missing. The FBI was brought into the case after the fact, and was now playing catch up. However, they had little to go on. Most agents suspected that the mogul was dead, with it only being a matter of time before his body was discovered. This was actually the third kidnapping of a wealthy individual that the FBI had investigated in the last six months. None of the outcomes had been good.

     “Since when does the FBI resort to using psychics?” Neal was truly intrigued.

     “Since the mayor is putting all kinds of pressure on us to make some headway,” Siegel answered glumly. “The missing guy is his personal friend, and the family is strongly urging His Honor to employ any means necessary to bring him home, no matter how far-fetched. It seems that in the past, this old lady has helped police in several other states to locate missing persons, and, if you believe the reports, she has had some impressive successes. I personally think that we are wasting valuable time and grasping at straws, but those above my paygrade want no stone left unturned. So, we allocated a few hours to devote to the ‘woo-woo,’ aspect, and now the FBI can say that they have explored every avenue, no matter how weird.”

     “Was she helpful today?” Neal asked.

     “Nah, not really. She claimed that she had some vague awareness of the guy being near water. Now, New York is a friggin’ island that’s surrounded by water, so, in a nutshell—no, she wasn’t very helpful to our investigation. And speaking of which, I have to hit the pavement to interview some people who worked with the missing man. I’ll check in with you later this afternoon.”

     With that, Siegel was out the door, leaving Neal with his mortgage fraud cases. The CI worked diligently for the next hour before his eyes started to cross. He had unraveled a few knotty cases, so Siegel should be happy, but Neal wanted to pace himself. There was no reason to clear his stack of work because, like procreating rabbits, more files would magically make their way to his desk. It was almost noon, so Neal decided to take an early lunch and perhaps stretch it out as long as he could before someone noticed his absence. More than likely, he would be back at his desk before Siegel returned.

     There was a pleasant little café not far down the street from the FBI building that served pretty good sandwiches and salads. It didn’t necessitate a long walk or a cab ride, so Neal decided that it was going to be his lunch destination. There were several table set up outside with big, striped umbrellas providing shade from the midday sun, and Neal slowly maneuvered his way through the labyrinth of chairs to reach the maître d’s station. He was halfway there when a pleasant voice stopped him.

     “Would you care to join me, Agent?”

     Neal quickly looked around and realized that Adele Hayworth was addressing him, her smile shy and tentative. She was already seated at a table and had the remains of a fruit salad in front of her. He approached her with his own charming smile in place.

     “Mrs. Hayworth, how coincidental that we happened to choose the same place for lunch. And my name is Neal, by the way, and I’m not an agent.”

     Like all good con men, the fleeting thought skittered across Neal’s mind that this woman could have planned this “accidental” meeting. But then he reasoned that she had left the FBI building an hour before he did, and would have had no knowledge if he was going out to lunch or where. Neal considered that perhaps Mozzie’s paranoia was rubbing off on him. 

     The mystery woman smiled a little more certainly now. “Please call me Adele, Neal, and don’t feel obligated to keep an old lady company if you are expecting someone to join you for your meal.”

     “Quite the contrary,” Neal commented gallantly, “I would love the pleasure of your company.”

     After seating himself and ordering his lunch, Neal regarded the grandmotherly matron curiously.

     “So, you are all by yourself today. Are you perhaps waiting for your husband?” Neal asked.

     “Actually, I’m a widow,” she responded. “I am used to being alone, and I find it entertaining to just sit quietly and people-watch. My granddaughter dropped me off earlier at the FBI office after we drove in from Greenwich, Connecticut. Since I didn’t know how long that would take, I told her to enjoy some shopping, and I would call her when I was done.”

     She then picked up an old-fashioned flip phone from the table. “It’s really an ancient ‘dumb’ phone—not a ‘smart’ one like those new fangled things that seem to have the ability to connect with other planets in the solar system. However, it gets the basic job done, and Alicia should be here soon.”

     Neal smiled pleasantly, but a sarcastic thought crossed his mind. If this woman were a “psychic,” why would she need a phone? She could just send her thoughts on their way via the ether. He wondered what her reaction would be if he said that aloud! In Neal’s cynical opinion, people who claimed to have clairvoyance were frauds and charlatans who took advantage of other people’s blind faith while lining their pockets. Most folks who frequented them were troubled with doubts and uncertainties, and were looking for reasons and definitive answers. Psychics took advantage of their vulnerabilities.

     Psychic “readings” were broad enough that anything could be interpreted to be pertinent and to fit neatly into a person’s present dilemma. The ruse was fueled by the so-called psychic’s savvy ability to read body language and facial expressions, pushing just a little bit further in the direction that those tells led them. Little by little, they would string the mark along, usually promising that more information could be gleaned with additional sessions. His thoughts continued in this vein when Mrs. Hayworth suddenly chuckled.

     “You really don’t have a very high opinion of me, do you, Neal?”

     Neal knew that he had no “tells.” Years of steeling his facial features in any situation, stressful or otherwise, was a necessary skill for a con artist. He wondered why this woman had reached that conclusion. Was it just the normal response that she was used to getting from new acquaintances?

     “Why would you think that, Mrs. Hayworth?” Neal had to ask.

     “Please, Neal, call me Adele. I can sense that you are quite skeptical of me, and you have every right to be so. Most likely, you have been told that I am a clairvoyant, and you, like many others, are leery of that claim. People don’t want to believe in something that they can’t see or can’t explain.”

     Neal stayed quiet, neither agreeing nor disagreeing with her statement, so Mrs. Hayworth forged ahead with her reasoning.

     “Everybody in today’s world is so mired down in reality—a reality that all the new technologies strive to reinforce. Scientists take things apart so that they can see the inner workings, thereby removing the mysteries from life. My goodness, even man’s primal DNA molecules have been dissected and quantified. Science is currently the god that we worship, and it is slowly replacing faith. Traditional religions are dying out because people refuse to accept things on blind trust anymore. How can there be a soul if you cannot see it?

     People want to understand the how and the why of everything. As a society, we have become quite voyeuristic. We want to witness things with our own eyes. To prove my point, just look at the multitude of reality shows on the boob tube today. I think that the result is a very closed-minded and judgmental populace, and I also think that is very sad.” 

     Neal was temporarily taken aback with the perceptive woman’s words. She had a definite talent for cutting to the chase.

     “So, explain it to me, Adele. Tell me about your ‘gift.’” Neal challenged.

     A wry smile made its way to Adele’s lips. “My ability could be considered a curse as well as a gift, I’m afraid. To be precise, let me just begin by saying that I became aware of the ‘phenomena’ at a very young age. Actually, that is not quite an accurate statement. At first, when I was a child, I did not think it was at all unusual. I assumed that everyone had the same experiences and that it was ‘normal.’

     I could sense when things were about to happen or had already occurred. I would get a feeling of floating, nebulous unease if they were bad things. I’d feel jittery and restless because I couldn’t put my finger on the source of those forebodings. Following that up, most of the time I would have disturbing dreams with disembodied images coming into view. I felt an urgency to make sense, somehow, of what those images meant. With the wisdom of age, I have come to realize that may not be my job. I am simply a conduit to pass them on to those with the talents and abilities to decipher their meanings and to act on them.”

      Adele paused in her explanation to glance searchingly at Neal.

     “Do you want me to go on,” she asked, “or are you already bored and just too chivalrous to say so?”

     “Not at all, Adele. By all means, continue and help me to understand,” Neal urged good-naturedly.

     Adele obliged by taking it to the next level. “Please do not confuse me with those tricksters who claim to cross over to the ‘other side’ and commune with dead spirits. Séances are ridiculous charades, in my opinion, and I pity those taken in by malicious frauds. Not only do I not talk to dead people, I do not pretend to know the future. I only have a vague awareness of a person’s present difficulty, or perhaps their eventual destiny with absolutely no details. I do, however, sense some things by way of color, and colors have come to have different meanings for me. Actually, there is a word for this that our good, empirical scientists have termed ‘synesthesia.’

     I have done a lot of research on the subject, and have come to discover that it is a neurological anomaly most likely centered in the temporal lobe of the brain. There are various types of synesthesia involving one or more of the five senses. Some scientists believe that it is a definite aberration resulting from an injury to the brain, or, in the absence of a stroke or brain trauma, merely the result of a glitch in fetal brain development.

     What they cannot dispute is that it does exist. Although rare, it has been found in approximately four percent of the human species. Again, most people who experience it are unaware that others do not see things the same way. Only recently, when papers have been published on the subject and it has been discussed in the scientific community, have people come forward admitting that certain situations in their world trigger a specific color. Usually, these people are artistically creative in some form. Noted musicians like Duke Ellington, Billy Joel, and Itzhak Perlman have all confessed that they see various musical notes in vibrant colors. Physicist Nikola Tesla saw elements of his formulas take on different hues. So, because of these testimonials by respected individuals, some credence is rightly bestowed on that aptitude.”

     Neal studied the old woman in a new light. Obviously, she was educated and astute, and she was definitely not trying to gain a new convert today. It appeared that she expected not to be taken seriously, most likely because cynical people had summarily dismissed her claims in the past. Neal had to admire her for even showing up today at the Bureau.

     “So, Adele, were you able to help the FBI this morning by giving them any information?” Neal asked.

     The old lady sighed. “Very little, I’m afraid. Of course, after I heard about the abduction on the late edition of the news, the kidnapping was definitely on my mind when I fell asleep that night. I never see faces in my dreams, you must understand, although I am usually aware of the person’s identity. That night, I dreamed that I perceived the missing man in a small, wooden enclosure. The vertical slats surrounding him were once white, but now the paint was old and peeling, and there were rotted sections literally falling down. I also felt that he either was near or partially submerged in water. He was alone, and I saw a blue aura in the space where I observed him to be.”

     “What does the color blue mean to you?” Neal wanted to know.

     “Unfortunately, in this instance, I do not think that it depicts a good outcome, Neal.”

     “So, the color blue signifies death to you?” Neal asked.

     “Nothing is ever that definite in my world, my young friend,” Adele responded. “Blue can mean other things such as a great loss or overwhelming grief as well as something as final as death. I sincerely hope that I am wrong, but I do not believe that I am. I am afraid that only time will tell how bleak this man’s fate is. I feel very sorry for those left behind waiting for an answer and some closure. I only wish that I could have been more helpful.”

     Neal suddenly found that he had to ask. “Adele, why did you suddenly stop by my desk and look at me so intently when you were leaving the FBI building earlier?”

     “Ah, does my doubting cynic want a ‘reading’ from me?” Adele asked with a disbelieving expression. “I’ve just explained that I am far removed from a gypsy toting around a crystal ball in my handbag.”

     Neal found himself blushing for being so clumsy in his inquiry. He was usually more slick than this, getting answers before people even realized he was asking them anything.

     “That’s not it at all,” Neal hastened to reassure her. “I was just curious why you apparently singled me out for just a few brief moments.”

     The old lady looked reticent to continue. “Perhaps I just needed to stop for a minute to catch my breath,” she said unconvincingly.

     Neal just raised his eyebrows making it clear that he doubted her sincerity.

     Again, the old lady sighed but eventually took pity on her new acquaintance.

     “As I was leaving the FBI’s conference room and descending the stairs, I began to perceive a strong aura emanating from somewhere in the room. The closer that I got to you, the stronger that feeling became. It was almost magnetic in nature, drawing me to it and literally stopping my steps when I came to stand beside you.”

     “Did you see a color?” Neal asked almost hesitantly.

     Adele smiled sadly. “Yes, it was a vibrant, pulsating blue in nature, and quite overwhelming.”

     “So, you thought that you were seeing my eventual death?” Neal asked incredulously.

     “Not at all, Neal. As I have told you, the color blue has many connotations in the context of my domain. What I saw in you was a very deep and lingering sadness. I feel that you have suffered great losses in your life, some perhaps originating in your childhood. I intuited that other losses are more fresh—perhaps a loved one who was taken from you. You have been hurt many times, and bear poignant psychological scars that you diligently try to hide from view.

     You wear many faces, my friend, and very few know the real you. Most tend to misunderstand your true motivations and decide to keep you at a distance because it frightens their stable little worlds. That is hurtful because you have a great desire and need for intimacy and trust. Lately, those things have become elusive and far beyond your reach, and that is what is driving the deep melancholy.

     Unfortunately, there is, indeed, going to be more death around you, but definitely not yours—not yet, anyway. I do think that you will go away for a while, but it will not be a true death and you will recover—perhaps I am seeing an illness of some sort. But I feel that ultimately you will survive and rejoin life again on your own terms,” Adele tried to reassure the young man whose eyes were riveted on her.

     “We all die one day, Neal, and maybe it is best that we remain ignorant of the time and the circumstances. If we knew our ultimate end, perhaps more suicides would occur because people would not want to endure prolonged pain, suffering, or desperate loneliness.”

     Neal found himself continuing to stare at this woman. The logical part of his mind told him that there had been some loose lips within the FBI. Somebody had given Adele an earful about Neal, most likely before she had ever entered the conference room. His past was common knowledge. Lately, since Peter had put a cold remoteness between them, the gossip around the coffee urn was rampant with speculation. Probably all the presumptuous agents assumed that Neal had screwed up royally, thereby fulfilling the prophesy that con men couldn’t be trusted. In their minds, criminals would always eventually turn ugly and bite the hand that feeds them. He doubted that Peter, himself, would betray any confidences, but there were a lot of other agents present that day who could have talked to her beforehand.

     Neal was determined not to be this woman’s mark. He wouldn’t put any faith in her assessments or predictions. Still, he felt like his whole life had suddenly been laid bare before her, and that was a truly uncomfortable sensation. Before he could comment further, a horn beeped at the curb and a young woman could be seen waving her hand out the driver’s window.

     “Ah, Alicia, God bless her, has arrived to take me home,” Adele exclaimed. “It has been my pleasure to make your acquaintance, Neal. I can only hope that things in your life will improve. You are a good and kind soul, my troubled friend. Just believe in yourself and try to realize your value and all that you have to offer those wise enough to accept it.”

     She took the arm that Neal extended and made steady, determined progress toward the car. With a smile and a wave, she then left Neal’s life as briskly and unexpectedly as she had entered it.


	2. Chapter 2

     One week later, the wealthy kidnapped man’s body was discovered by indigents trying to find shelter from a rainy day. His final resting place was a small, derelict, ramshackle old boathouse on the Hudson River in nearby Hoboken, New Jersey. Neal looked at the crime scene photos intently, finding himself peering at eroded vertical whitewashed slats of wood surrounding a body partially immersed in brackish water that had seeped in under the rotted floor. FBI pathologists estimated that he had been dead for quite awhile, most likely killed right after the kidnappers had collected the ransom money. By the time that Adele Hayworth had come to impart her dream impressions, the man had already been dispatched from this world.

     Death seemed to be on a continuing rampage because barely a month after that, David Siegel’s body lay in the rain with a bullet hole in his chest.

     Of course, Siegel’s death turned the FBI’s world upside down. Every avenue of investigation was pursued with dogged, rabid intensity by one and all. Even though he was a recent addition to the White Collar division, Siegel was still one of their own, and somebody needed to be held accountable. Peter took it as a personal affront when Siegel’s picture made it to the memorial wall of fallen agents. After all, Peter was the one to entice the young agent to come to New York, the eventual scene of his premature demise.

     For a while, Neal found himself relegated to his loft, just a bit of flotsam that Peter wanted to remove from his complicated life. As the weeks passed and no progress was made in the murder case, Peter grudgingly released the CI from his exile and Neal became Peter’s wingman once more. The partnership was nothing like it had been previously. Neal’s “straight and narrow” became even more delineated and claustrophobic, and he suspected that Peter kept his anklet information continuously up on his phone. If Neal stopped into a restroom, Peter knew about it and exactly how long he stayed there.

     Then came that fatal day when Neal, with his back to the wall, had confessed to Peter about the fraudulent voice recording that was necessary to win his handler’s freedom. Peter went ballistic, ranting and raving about letting the justice system implement the necessary measures to maintain law and order. Neal had no right to determine what those measures were, and that it was never acceptable to corrupt the system to exonerate the innocent. There were two sides to that ideological fence, and Peter had to stay connected to the side in which he believed in order to keep his personal humanity intact.

     “Neal, do you know what you have done?” Peter challenged.

     “Yeah, I made sure justice has been served.”

     “No, that’s what I do!” Peter said emphatically.

     “I did the right thing.” Neal insisted.

     “None of this is right,” Peter disagreed.

     “I know why you did what you did,” Peter finally admitted.

     “Yeah,” Neal clarified, “to help my friend!”

     “And because you’re a criminal and you couldn’t help yourself. Shame on me for expecting anything else!” Peter finished the sentence with those cruel words, cutting Neal to the core.

     Now Neal’s anger was suddenly directed at himself. How many times did he have to come back to the well before he finally got the concept that it was dry? How many times did he have to be beaten down before he realized the hopelessness of it all? Neal was not a stupid man, so why did he do stupid things like believing in people and assuming that friends always had your back?

     It was beyond time to re-evaluate his priorities and face facts—time to implement a new objective. As Neal had told Mozzie, there were too many puppeteers pulling his strings, controlling and dictating. Currently, he was tap-dancing to Curtis Hagen’s tune, having made a deal with the devil to help Peter, the very man who was now turning his back on Neal. That sainted system that Peter believed in had let Neal down as well, reneging time after time on its promises. Peter may believe in it, but Neal wasn’t buying into the principle anymore because he had been burned once too often. Neal was determined to create his own destiny!

     The physical as well as emotional chasm between handler and CI widened even more, with Peter only summoning Neal when he needed the con man’s expertise. His handler’s barely contained fury was always fulminating just below the surface, and their interactions were fraught with clipped and antagonistic words. Suddenly, Neal actually wondered if he could tough it out in the long run, so he began to formulate a plan.

     Neal trusted no one, carrying out the bits and pieces of the strategy little by little, setting the scene with intricate care. He wasn’t quite sure when he would implement the plan, but for now it just felt good to know that there was an alternative—an escape hatch—when he had reached his limit. This time, he would make it foolproof. Peter would not find him moping in an empty apartment or track him down to a tropical isle. This time, one way or the other, Neal would disappear from people’s lives. And that is exactly what happened, although it certainly wasn’t Neal’s doing.

~~~~~~~~~~

     The call came in a little after 2 AM. Peter was dead asleep next to Elizabeth, and fumbled clumsily for his phone on the nightstand. The voice on the other end of the one-sided conversation got right to the point. Neal Caffrey had cut his anklet exactly four minutes ago. The connection went completely dark after that, so the Marshals were mobilizing to descend on the last recorded GPS location.

     Peter swore to himself as he stumbled from his warm cocoon and pulled on pants and a shirt. He should have known that this was bound to happen. Neal was angry, and had been for quite a while even though he hid it behind a bland façade. And when Neal was angry or threatened, he reacted.

     Well, Peter was angry, too! He was angry with himself for being such a fool by thinking that Neal was salvageable. He was tired of going out on a limb, time after time, for his recalcitrant CI. He was tired of putting his career on the line, not to mention his and El’s lives when malicious former associates of the con man materialized on the scene. He was tired of arguing with somebody who turned a deaf ear while continuing to manipulate things to suit his own agenda. Sometimes you needed to get a return on all the time and effort that you put into someone, and, when that wasn’t forthcoming, well … you just had to cut your losses. Peter was so done!

     Peter’s mind continued to roil as he drove through the darkened streets towards Riverside Drive. He could not let his past affectionate emotions cloud his judgment this time. Neal had to take on the responsibility for his actions, and those actions were making him a three time offender who would be returning to prison for a very long time. It was such a waste of what could have been!

     Peter also knew that, this time around, finding the con man would be very difficult. Neal was savvy and a quick study, and he knew exactly how Peter’s mind worked after being his partner over the years. He also knew FBI procedures and protocols, inside and out, and was no doubt aware of the vulnerabilities in those strategies. Yeah—this was going to be a challenge, but Peter refused to entertain even the notion that Neal could pull it off forever. Then the first few cracks of doubt entered his mind. The last time that Peter had located Neal on a faraway tropical island, it was because of a personal connection—a lifeline that they no longer shared.   

       June’s mansion was dark when the petulant agent arrived, and nobody answered his loud, persistent knocking. As per Neal’s parole agreement, Peter was in possession of a key to the house. Letting himself in, he then strode up those three long flights of stairs before flinging open the door to Neal’s loft. It was as eerily dark and silent as the rest of the house until Peter flipped on the overhead light. He then made a continuous and thorough circuit of the room, pulling open drawers and niches as he went. He found nothing of any interest, not that he expected to. There was no go-bag holding money, no assorted passports with false identities, no snarky notes left behind with Peter’s name that said, “Go to Hell!” The bed was neatly made, fresh fruit was in a bowl on the table, and a corked half-empty bottle of St. Emilion awaited someone to pour it into a glass. Actually, it looked as if Neal had just stepped out for a bit and would be returning any minute.

     Although being Neal’s handler gave Peter the right to search his CI’s things, he would need a warrant and probable cause to search the rest of the house. Undoubtedly, when June returned from wherever she presently was, the formidable lady would fight him tooth and nail through her intimidating lawyers. Perhaps that whole enterprise wasn’t worth going to the trouble because June, like Neal, was slick, and she definitely would get rid of anything incriminating. She was as much Neal’s occasional partner in crime as Mozzie.

     Mozzie! That’s where Peter had to start. Although the Marshals would put an APB out for Neal, Peter knew that he had to invite Mozzie to that little party. Peter would bet his last dollar that the two were planning to leave together, so this all might be an exercise in futility. However, just maybe, if Neal’s disappearance was an impulsive, spur of the moment decision, Mozzie had not caught up yet, and the rendezvous hadn’t taken place. Peter needed to find Mozzie as soon as possible.

     Actually, that had not been a very difficult chore. A beat cop had received the BOLO on his cell phone barely twenty minutes before the little bald guy strolled into his favorite coffee shop on Houston Street the next morning. The alert patrol officer detained and cuffed him before escorting him to the FBI interrogation room, where Peter was now seated across from him examining the contents from the bespectacled man’s pockets.

     “Your phone is password protected,” Peter decreed. “Give me the password so that I can access your call log and texts.”

     Mozzie’s response was to roll his eyes and snort, “Like that’s really going to happen, Suit!”

     “Well,” Peter threatened, “what is going to happen is that you are going to be charged with obstruction of justice if you don’t start cooperating.”

     “Bring it on, G-Man. Break out the rubber hoses and do your worst, but I’m not telling you anything!”

     After a beat, Mozzie squinted up at Peter and asked, “Exactly what am I not telling you?”

     Peter leaned forward ominously, getting right in the shackled man’s face.

     “Don’t mess with me, Mozzie. You know exactly what I’m talking about—Neal has burned all his bridges. He’s rabbited, and you helped him and know where he’s going. Tell me what I want to know right now, and maybe you can walk away from this unscathed.”

     Mozzie’s only response was an appalled stare.

     “Oh, so maybe you didn’t know,” Peter taunted. “Maybe you thought that you and Neal were joined at the hip, but, apparently, your good buddy has left you holding the bag. How’s that feel, Mozzie? How’s it feel to be used and abused by somebody that you thought was your friend and who was someone that you could trust? Wise up and get out from under this thing before it is too late. Neal has proven that he is not worth it. He threw you under the bus and decided to look out for number one.”

     Now Mozzie shook himself out of his stunned inertia.

     “Are you out of your mind, Suit? Neal would never do that to me. Maybe you have lost his respect and loyalty because you’ve been acting like a ‘holier than thou’ ass, but he would never turn on me. Never!”

     Interrogator and prisoner went round and round for the better part of an hour before Peter’s last nerve was in danger of snapping. He knew that he could legally hold Mozzie for twenty-four hours before he had to bring charges against him. Otherwise, he would have to let him go. Peter would find something to make that happen—unpaid parking tickets, jaywalking, whatever. Right now, Mozzie was Peter’s only ace in the hole, his only connection to the escaped con man, and he intended to hang on tight. As Mozzie was led away, literally kicking and screaming, Peter returned to his desk still holding Mozzie’s phone in his hand. Maybe the tech team could work their magic and unlock the damn thing.

~~~~~~~~~~

     In the interim, Peter managed to unearth the fact that Mozzie had not filed a tax return the previous year. Actually, he could not find any tax returns at all. Mozzie offered no explanation, and was therefore remanded into custody and brought before a judge. June was present in the courtroom that morning, ready to post his bail. However, the district attorney argued that the defendant had no fixed address, and thus presented a flight risk. Bail was denied, and the angry little man glared at Peter as he was being led away.

     Of course, Neal again gained the notoriety of becoming a member of the “Most Wanted” rogues gallery. His picture was flashed on newscasts, and his description was set to trigger an alert at every means of egress out of the city. New York was buttoned up tight, but Peter, sitting and waiting, wondered if it was too little too late.

     On the third day of Neal’s disappearance, a member of the tech team presented himself to Peter, Mozzie’s phone in his hand.

     “Sir, we’ve cracked the thing and there is something that you need to hear right away,” the man said excitedly as he activated the voice mail.

     Peter listened to the message three times in succession, but nothing could change the import of the threat.

_“We’ve got your friend, little man, and if you want him back alive and in one piece, listen up real good! We’ll be calling you again in one day telling you our demands. Don’t contact the police or the FBI if you don’t want a really bad ending. We’re pretty sure, considering who you and Caffrey are, that you won’t ask for help from that side of the street. We’re talking ransom, dude, so think big about that or your buddy bites it.”_

     Without being asked, the techie told Peter that the call had come in the evening before and had originated from an untraceable burner phone. Sometime today that second call was imminent.

~~~~~~~~~~

     Mozzie was now sitting in the interrogation room across from Peter, not handcuffed this time, but no less a trapped quarry. He had listened dispassionately to the voice mail and immediately went into a meditative fugue state, refusing to speak or make eye contact with anyone. In the meantime, the phone on the table between them had been wired to a recording device, and other intricate tracing equipment. With that being accomplished, FBI agents and one pissed off flimflam artist then endured being in the same room for hours. Finally, at six o’clock on the dot, the phone trilled an incoming call from a blocked number.

     “Remember, Mozzie, try to keep them on the phone for as long as possible so that maybe we can get a trace set up,” Peter urged Neal’s cohort.

     Mozzie ignored him, took a deep breath, pushed the button and demanded, “Speak to me!”

_“I take it that you got our message, dude,” the raspy voice answered. “Just know that we mean business. Our price is one mil in unmarked bills to be delivered tomorrow at ten o’clock at night. Go to the Bronx Zoo’s primate enclosure, put a bag containing the money in the trashcan near the door, and then walk away out of the park. Don’t look back. Just do it.”_

     “I want to talk to Neal,” Mozzie demanded. “I want some proof of life.”

_“You’re not in a position to demand anything, asshole. We dealt the cards. Either play your hand or fold. Just know, if you fold, then so does your friend. This is not our first rodeo, so don’t think that we are stupid amateurs.”_

“One million in cash is a tall order. Why would you think that I just happen to have that much at my fingertips?” Mozzie queried.

     _“Don’t underestimate our sources,” the voice said in a snarl. “You’ve got the means to raise that much. Matthew Keller clued us in that not all of that Nazi treasure was accounted for when the Feds came on the scene. It’s hidden away in handy little hidey holes along with Caffrey’s stashes of cash.”_

     Mozzie took a deep breath. “Okay, I can raise maybe $500,000 in cash by your timetable tomorrow, but the other half will take time. Deals have to be made so that certain merchandise can be liquidated into hard currency.”

     There was a bit of a lull before the decision was forthcoming.

     _“Okay, dude, bring the cash down-payment tomorrow. If it’s on the up and up, then you’ve bought yourself and your friend one more day. Don’t be late at the zoo cause Caffrey ain’t looking too good last time I seen him.”_

The connection was abruptly cut. Peter looked to the tech squad who shook their heads in frustration. There had not been enough time to get a fix on the caller.

     “Okay fellas, try and get something—anything—off that recording. Maybe you can enhance it and pick up ambient sounds that might give us a lead where he was when he made it,” Peter was in agent mode.

     “Diana, Jones—look up the names of all the prisoners that Keller came in contact with before he was shipped off to a Russian prison. Find out if any of them have been released in the last six months. I have a feeling from what this guy said that he, and whoever his accomplice is, may be the persons responsible for the rash of abductions for ransom in the city.”

     “On it, Boss,” the junior agents called as they raced from the room.

     Now it was just Peter and Mozzie left at the table.

     “Can you really get your hands on a half-million dollars just like that?” Peter asked suspiciously. He wondered just how much illicit money Neal and Mozzie had managed to squirrel away over the years of their crime spree.

     Mozzie looked at him coolly. “I’ll get the money somehow, even if I have to beg, borrow, or steal to do it. That’s what you do for those you care about in your life. That’s right, Suit, a friend does whatever is necessary to protect another friend and keep them safe. But, perhaps that concept is beyond your comprehension, _Peter_.” Mozzie said accusingly.

     Peter had no answer to that. He simply stared at Mozzie until Peter was the first to blink and look away.

~~~~~~~~~~

     Mozzie was allowed to leave the FBI building on his mysterious errand to amass the first part of the ransom. He was given strict orders to return to the FBI building early the next evening. Peter insisted that his phone be left behind, so Mozzie had no choice but to abide by Peter’s dictates.

     “Do you want us to tail him?” Diana asked.

     “No,” Peter answered shortly. “I really don’t want to know where he’s going.”

     “Are you even sure that he’ll come back?” was Diana’s next question.

     “Yeah, he’ll be back.”

     Peter was completely convinced of the depth of Mozzie’s loyalty to Neal. Without a doubt, the quirky little man would return with the necessary cash and carry out his part in the drama. But Peter, on the other hand, found himself no longer capable of that kind of blind faith. Suddenly the FBI agent felt a pang of guilt as well as a profound sense of loss.


	3. Chapter 3

     While awaiting the next act in the kidnapping saga, Jones and Diana had compiled a list of six recently released criminals who had crossed paths with Matthew Keller while he was awaiting extradition to Russia. They were now tracking down each one’s parole officer to get a handle on their whereabouts. It was tedious and time consuming, and not much progress had been made during the course of the day. It seemed that, ultimately, everything was riding on the shoulders of one very short, bald dynamo.

     Mozzie arrived in the White Collar office at 9 PM the next evening toting an old-fashioned leather satchel from another era. A multitude of faded and crackled stickers depicting defunct airlines and tourist sites around the world were haphazardly adhered to its surface. It was dropped unceremoniously with a thud onto the table in the conference room.

     “Is there really a half million dollars in there?” Peter asked.

     “Precisely a half mil,” Mozzie retorted, “and don’t even think about marking the bills! I don’t want anything to put the kibosh on this deal, Suit.”

     “Well, it’s your money and your loss, Mozzie,” Peter capitulated. “But we are going to put a miniature tracking device somewhere in that leather valise that belongs on “The Antique’s Roadshow.”

     A button that was really a miniature camera and recording device was also sewn onto Mozzie’s jacket.

     “We’ll have eyes and ears on whomever you encounter, Mozzie, so keep your coat on at all times,” Peter instructed.

     “Yeah, sure,” Mozzie snarked. “Like you’ll be able to see anything in the dark.”

     Peter wouldn’t rise to the bait. “We already have a SWAT team hunkered down in the primate house, and another team in the back of the ‘Zoo Safari’ van parked across from it. The men are all outfitted with night vision goggles. We will also have units stationed in unmarked vehicles across from every entrance to the park. So, no matter which gate he tries to use, we’ll be there waiting. Ideally, I’d like to take him down as soon as he grabs the money in order to keep any violence contained in the enclosed perimeter. Our guys have been instructed to take him alive, and we’ll sweat him until he gives up Caffrey’s location.”

     “Stupid, _Suit_ , really stupid!” Mozzie argued. “Most likely, this guy is not working alone. If he doesn’t make contact with a partner and give the all clear, well, forget about getting Neal back alive. Play it safe by letting the pick-up man leave, and then follow him back to his lair and any associates.”

     Before Peter could argue, Mozzie had another thought. “Let’s not forget the unexpected possibility that I may get an impromptu phone call aborting the original drop site and directing me to another. Seriously, Suit, you need to be flexible and prepared to turn your plan around on a dime, if necessary. You’d make a really terrible second story man!”

     “My operation, my plan,” Peter answered smugly. “Either get on board or it’s a no-go!”

     Mozzie favored him with a venomous look, grabbing his cell phone and the leather valise before marching from the room. It looked like he was leading a little parade through the bullpen with Peter, Jones, and Diana bringing up the rear. The four drove in silence to the Bronx, and eventually Mozzie was let out three blocks from the main gate to the zoo at fifteen minutes to the hour.

     “The gates are all padlocked,” Peter apprised the bald man while holding out a lock pick set and a small flashlight.

     Mozzie just favored him with raised eyebrows and a derisive look that spoke volumes. Undoubtedly, Mozzie had come prepared with his own tools of the trade. After the imminent gatecrasher left, the remaining three agents let themselves into the zoo by another point of entry, and took up clandestine positions behind adjacent buildings in the vicinity of the primate house. Using night vision binoculars, they kept their eyes trained on the deliveryman as he approached and made a beeline for the designated trash receptacle. He removed the top, then very carefully nestled the satchel deep inside before leaving the way that he had come.

     All sentries waited tensely. Twenty minutes later, a dark-clad figure advanced from the shadows, glancing around him warily. He zeroed in on the trashcan, quickly pulled his prize from its depths, and peeked inside using a penlight to re-assure himself that there was, indeed, cash within. He then took a cell phone from his pocket and made a call. When he started to slink away, all federal agents suddenly poured from their hidden recesses with guns drawn and screams of _“Down on the ground! Down on the ground, now!”_

     Of course, it was never meant to be that easy. The kidnapper pulled out his own weapon and shot randomly into the darkness. He was easily cut down by a fusillade of return fire, his body jerking and flying backwards. Now he was splayed out on the ground, face up, beside the leather satchel as rivulets of blood made their way across the asphalt. When Peter approached, his own weapon in hand, he noticed the man’s cell phone had come to rest a few feet from his outstretched hand. Peter’s heart sank. The LCD screen was still illuminated because the connection between the kidnapper and a partner had never been terminated!

     Boots on the ground in the street notified Peter immediately through his earpiece of a not unexpected development. They confirmed that a white paneled van had suddenly roared to life and screeched away from the curb. Agents were now in hot pursuit, zigzagging through narrow avenues at dangerously high speeds. They almost had the suspect boxed in as Federal vehicles converged on an intersection from two directions, but the foolhardy individual simply accelerated, thinking he could make it through the grid unscathed. A Fed SUV caught his rear bumper, causing the fleeing van to lose traction and spin out of control. Like dominoes falling, another Federal vehicle t-boned him, and that put an end to the treacherous chase. Air bags deployed and saved the FBI agents, but the van driver was not as lucky. He died at the scene from the impact of the crash.

     During the tedious mop-up under high-intensity klieg lights and crime scene tape, a young junior agent unknown to Peter approached him.

     “Sir, I hate to bother you, but there is a really loud and highly agitated short guy who insists on talking to you. He simply will not go away, Agent Burke, so I thought I’d better let you know.”

     Peter sighed. He knew that this whole operation had turned into a disaster, and had probably assured Neal’s death sentence. He actually felt sick to his stomach, but he knew that he would have to face Mozzie at some point.

     “Let him through,” Peter said tiredly.

     Mozzie approached slowly with measured steps, his eyes owlishly large behind his glasses. When he finally spoke, his voice was flat with no inflection.

     “You should be ecstatically happy now, Suit. It’s like a two-for-one prize for you and the Bureau. Give the man a Kewpie doll. Everything is all tied up with a neat little bow. You got your big, bad kidnappers, and you also got rid of your CI problem, all in one fell swoop. That was probably your intent from the start. So, it’s a win-win for everybody—oh, except for Neal, of course.”

     Peter never got a chance to answer because, all at once, a small, compact body was suddenly flying at him trying to get clenched hands around his throat. Peter had never known Mozzie to be violent, but now all bets were off, and it was clear that the angry man was out for blood. It took three burly SWAT members to tear him off Peter. When they finally had him subdued, Peter noted the tears streaming down the bald man’s cheeks, and he had to turn away from that terrible portrait of anguish.

     “I’m going to find him, Mozzie, I promise you,” Peter vowed quietly as he looked down at his feet. “It’s my mission in life to always find Neal Caffrey.”

     Peter could barely make out the softly whispered, “Maybe this time it’s too late, Suit.”

~~~~~~~~~~

     There was no sign of Mozzie over the next forty-eight hours, and that was a bit of a relief for the guilt-stricken agent. The satchel of money stayed locked up in the evidence room, a testament to a botched rescue operation.

      The deceased kidnappers were quickly identified through their fingerprints. The one who collected the ransom money had, indeed, been incarcerated with Matthew Keller. He had been out of prison for approximately the last seven months. His partner was a second cousin, and his prints were in the database because he had been in the army. He had mustered out a year ago after a dishonorable discharge involving suspected drug-running while in the military. Neither of the men had a regular job. They shared a dilapidated apartment in a rundown section of the Bronx that agents methodically tore apart. Although the Feds unearthed some of the marked money from other kidnap ransoms hidden behind a wall vent, there were no clues as to the whereabouts of their latest victim.

     The white paneled van had been sent to the forensics lab. The tires were removed and tiny embedded particles were teased from the treads and scrutinized under electron microscopes in an effort to pinpoint where the vehicle had recently traveled. The rear of the van yielded many sets of fingerprints, and Peter’s blood ran cold when one set was identified as Neal’s. Likewise, a few drops of dried blood matched the CI’s DNA.

     Diana was the voice of reason at this low point. “It’s only a few drops, Boss. If they had shot or knifed him, there would be evidence of a lot more. Even if they had tried to clean it up, luminol would have showed that it was once there. We have to believe that Neal is still alive.”

     “But where,” Peter said morosely, “and how long can he hold on?”

     All agents worked around the clock, having meals brought in so that they could be hurriedly eaten. Most took only short breaks for a few hours of sleep on cots in the conference room. Peter went home once for a quick shower and a change of clothes. El put her arms around a husband who was running on fumes.

     “This is not your fault, Hon,” she tried to console him.

     Peter disagreed. “I ran the operation, El. It _is_ on me. I knew the risks to Neal, and I took a reckless gamble that may have cost Neal his life. Mozzie swears that I did it intentionally, and, maybe subconsciously, that was my motivation. Now I can’t be sure.”

     “Peter,” Elizabeth said firmly as she cupped her husband’s face in her hands, “you are a good man—a good agent, and don’t let Mozzie or anybody else shake your faith in yourself.”

     When he just looked at her sadly, she added, “You did what you thought was right at the time.”

     Her words were like a blow to Peter’s gut. “El, that’s exactly what Neal said to justify what he did to get me out of prison.”

~~~~~~~~~~

     It was now day six after Neal’s abduction. Everyone had done all that they could do. There simply were no other avenues to explore or leads to pursue. The atmosphere was defeatist and somber, and none of the White Collar team could bring themselves to make eye contact with their boss. Now Peter just slumped in his chair and stared off into space because he had no dots left to connect. He actually was startled from his funk by the ringing of his phone.

     The guard at the front desk of the FBI building was calling to inform him that a Mrs. Adele Hayworth and her granddaughter, Alicia Meyers, were in the lobby and requesting permission to come up to the 21st floor. They insisted that they might have pertinent information about a kidnapping.

     It took Peter’s exhausted mind a few minutes to put a face to the name. Then he remembered the elderly lady from months ago who claimed to be a psychic. This was so not what he needed right now. He truly doubted that he could be polite and patient with some senior citizen who was consumed with flights of fancy, and spouting off about visions or dreams or whatever. He almost said no, but then Peter didn’t really want to heap any more guilt on his plate. He would hear the lady out, give her a moment in the spotlight, and then send her on her way.

     The elevator eventually opened, and a very determined Adele Hayworth held onto her granddaughter’s arm as they swept through the bullpen. She laboriously climbed the small flight of stairs where Peter met her. As he was about to usher her into the conference room where Diana and Jones were camped out working on their laptops, the granddaughter caught his arm and whispered in his ear.

     “My grandmother has been very worried and fretful these last few days. I hope that you will be kind enough to hear what she has to say and not be too judgmental or condescending.” 

     Peter stared at the young woman for a second before continuing tiredly into the messy room and sweeping old carryout containers into the trash. After clearing a space, he sat across from the two woman and tried for a bland expression. His junior agents perked up and gave her their attention as well.

     “Agent Burke,” Mrs. Hayworth began without preamble, “I am concerned about your confidential informant, Neal Caffrey. I saw his picture on the news at the beginning of the week and I remembered him from the last time that I was here. We actually shared a lunch that afternoon.”

     Well, that was news to Peter, but then he was not really surprised. Neal was a lady charmer, no matter what the woman’s age.

     Adele ignored Peter’s wry expression, and continued in her well-modulated voice.

     “Please do not consider me to be a senile old fool when I say that I got the feeling during our time together that there was a shared bond of some sort. That does not happen to me very often, I can assure you. Of course, I felt that same closeness with my late husband, and do continue to feel connected to my own children and my granddaughter. But they are family, and that is to be expected. So, when I began to dream about Neal, not once, but almost nightly this week, I knew that bond was somehow real and quite strong.

     The newscaster, Agent Burke, claimed that Neal is a fugitive on the run. I do not think that is the case at all. In my dreams, he is not running. Actually, he is hardly moving at all, and that has me worried. I also feel that he remains very close.”

     What Adele Hayworth did not tell Peter Burke was that, as always, there were vibrant colors embellishing her visions. At first, Neal had been surrounded by a garish, angry purple aura that swirled around him like storm clouds. Over the years, she had come to associate that dreaded color with pain and suffering. The aguish seemed to reach a crescendo by the third day, only to be replaced by the deep azure of despair and hopelessness. Each night after that transition to blue, the dark tone faded a little bit, getting paler and paler, until now it had the translucency of a watercolor.

     “Agent Burke, I truly believe that Neal is dying,” she said sadly, “and you must act quickly to save him.”

     Peter shot a look at his junior agents, inhaled deeply, and took the plunge.

     “Mrs. Hayworth, we believe that Neal was kidnapped because a ransom demand was received earlier this week. We still have not found him, and we have no leads, so is there anything that you can tell me, no matter how small or insignificant, that you think may help?”

     Peter certainly was not prepared for her emphatic response.

     “Amusements parks, Agent Burke—think amusement parks,” she advised him incongruously, ignoring his puzzled look.

     “Every night this week,” she went on to explain, “I found myself back in my past. As I child, my parents would bring me and my brothers down to Rockaway Beach Amusement Park in Queens for a treat during the hot days of summer before anyone had air-conditioning. That amusement park is what I clearly envision in my dreams. It is almost as if I am walking through it once again because I see it all just as it was back then. There was a big smiling clown at the entrance, an old six-stories high wooden roller coaster called the ‘Atom Smasher,’ a scary funhouse, and the most magnificent carousel with hand-carved wooden horses. I keep dreaming of those horses, Agent Burke, with their manes and tails flying as they go around and around.”

     Peter just stared for a brief moment, but Jones was all over it. Using his laptop, he accessed a site and informed them that Rockaway Amusement Park had its heydays in the 1940s through the 1970s, but suffered declining visitors when other larger and grander parks like Great Adventure in New Jersey came into existence. Buckling under to the fierce and more innovative competition, the park closed its doors in 1985, and eventually was razed to make way for housing developments and parking lots.

     Mrs. Hayworth looked crestfallen.

     “I was so sure,” she murmured. “The images were very, very clear, especially of the carousel horses.”

     Peter looked at her with some pity. It was obvious that she had wanted to assist the FBI, and really had faith in her “dreams,” but her visions had been no help at all. Peter, although realistically skeptical, had wanted to believe as well.


	4. Chapter 4

     This time, Diana escorted Mrs. Hayworth and her granddaughter back to the elevators, the doors slowly closing and shutting out the last “tie” to a lost CI. When she returned to the conference room, Peter was deep in thought. Suddenly, he turned to Jones.

      “Clinton, work your magic on that laptop and see if there are any old, abandoned amusement parks still standing anywhere in the Bronx. It may be a long shot, but those kidnappers lived in that borough, and they may have wanted to keep their captive close so that they could check on him periodically.”

     About an hour later, Jones had hit the mother lode.

     “Okay, Peter,” he began, “here’s the scoop. There is one old derelict amusement park still standing in the Bronx called ‘Wiley’s Glen.’ It always was a rather small enterprise, owned and operated by a family over several generations, and its visitors were mostly all local residents.

     Now, here’s where the scenario gets convoluted. The scion of the family died without a will almost ten years ago, and the heirs are still mired down in court proceedings to sort it all out. There are back taxes due, so that muddies the issue even more. The Bronx Parks Department really wants to get their hands on the parcel of land so that they can turn it into a greenspace. They are using the loophole of eminent domain to acquire it. Likewise, some wealthy venture capitalists are willing to pay those back taxes because they are funding an up-and-coming developer who would level the site so that trendy housing units could be built. To date, everything is at a standstill in judicial limbo as all the interested parties duke it out.”

     Jones then pulled up the location on Google Earth, and with his touch pad, enlarged an assortment of rickety structures in various states of decay. Sliding over the scene, he stopped at the sad remains of what had obviously been a merry-go-round. The canopy was no longer intact, and the horses on the platform were long gone, probably scavenged by looters who took the sought-after creatures to antique dealers to be sold at exorbitant prices to avid memorabilia collectors.

     Peter and his two agents looked at one another, all with the same question in mind. Should they act on this off-the-wall wild goose chase? Well, Peter thought to himself—in for a penny, in for a pound!

     “Jones, Diana—get a team together and call the local PD in the area to request some tracking dogs. We may wind up looking like crazy fools, but I just have to know. I’m willing to grasp at any straw at this point, no matter how flimsy.”

~~~~~~~~~~

     Three hours later, Peter had his team on site in the Bronx. They had scoured the area, acre by acre, but discovered nothing in the tall weeds nor in the rat-infested, crumbling buildings. Peter took heart that at least they hadn’t found Neal’s body. Now, two dogs, a Bloodhound and a German Shepherd, had arrived and were straining at the leashes held by their handlers. They knew that they had a job to do and were exuberant in anticipation. A shirt, quickly obtained from a laundry hamper in Neal’s loft and enclosed in a plastic bag, was in Peter’s hand. This was his last-ditch effort, and, if it didn’t pan out, Peter knew that the situation was, indeed, hopeless.

     The dog handlers allowed both of their animals to take a good whiff of the article of clothing, and then both urged their canine detectives with a forceful command to “Find!” The Bloodhound started an excited baying and surged off, while his partner was not far behind. Sometimes the pair would raise their sensitive noses from the ground and stop to assess the air around them. A few times, they seemed confused and moved around in circles that were ever widening.

     “They’ve temporarily lost the scent,” one handler informed Peter and his team. “Give them a few minutes. If your man was here or still is here, they’ll let us know. They had something when we first started out, and they’ll keep at it until they get the job done.”

     The doubt on Peter’s face must have been obvious to one of the dog handlers, who sought to reassure him.

     “Let me explain a little bit about how these animals work, Agent Burke. A dog interprets the world predominately by smell, unlike humans who rely on sight. The part of a dog’s brain that controls smell is forty times larger than in humans. A human has about five million scent glands, whereas a dog has between 125 to 300 million, depending on the breed. So that means that their sense of smell is 10,000 to 10,000,000 times better than humans.”

     Suddenly, this explanation was cut short as the Bloodhound started up his howling once again, and the German Shepherd was also agitated, whining and straining on his tether. The pair resembled powerful magnets, pulling everyone behind them. Peter’s breath caught in his throat as the dogs stopped abruptly at the remnants of the old carousel. Now the German Shepherd’s excited barking joined the Bloodhound’s yodeling. It was all that their handlers could do to keep them in check.

     “Take that thing apart,” Peter decreed forcefully. “Use axes, if you have to. Neal is here somewhere!”

     That extreme measure wasn’t necessary in the long run. The once-revolving platform was constructed to be somewhat elevated off the ground, and the team found a small metal access panel secured with a padlock nestled in the cinderblock walls at its base. They made short work of snapping the lock with the aid of powerful bolt cutters. Peter pushed to the front. He was fiercely determined to be the first to behold whatever, good or bad, lay behind that door. Stooping into the gloom, flashlight in hand, he suddenly could not stifle a distressed cry.

     Neal lay propped against the wall like a discarded rag doll tossed aside by a bored child. He looked small and frail, and so very pale. Peter was almost afraid to touch him, fearful that the skin beneath his hand would be stiff and cold. He forced himself to kneel beside the silent man and reach out tentative fingers to the side of an exposed neck. Like the movement of a hummingbird’s wings, there was a weak fluttering that was much too fast.

     “We need paramedics in here,” Peter whispered, his voice no longer capable of shouting. He then gently pulled his partner’s limp, unconscious body onto his lap as agents once again used the bolt cutters to free Neal’s shackled wrist. After that was accomplished, Peter hoarsely ordered everyone away. He, and he alone, would stay with Neal until help arrived.

     Although Peter could hear the agitated voices and canine whining beyond the walls, the claustrophobic chamber now containing two men became as quiet and sacrosanct as a venerable cathedral. It somehow seemed right that it would come down to this at the end, just Neal and Peter, two flip sides of a coin inexplicably joined together whether they liked it or not. Peter had never believed in pre-ordained fate. In his opinion, you made your own choices and created your own destiny by forging full-steam ahead. At times, you were righteously sure of the proper path, but then, at other times, there was less confidence and more blind stumbling. Did God ever intercede? Peter was never one to pray to a supreme being, but now he was beseeching anyone who may have been listening in some ethereal realm. Peter knew he needed time to make things right, so please, don’t let Neal die!

~~~~~~~~~~

     Emergency personnel on the ground had called for air transport assistance after their initial examination. The battered victim was unresponsive and exhibiting signs of severe shock, most likely from the effects of prolonged dehydration. Minutes later, Neal was loaded into a rescue Met Evac helicopter, and the whirling rotors lifted the bird with its compromised cargo on its way to a trauma center in Manhattan.

     Neal remained in a coma for two days. The human body is comprised of 75% fluid that resides in the cells as well as the vessels. Neal had precious little fluid left in reserve _._ When fluid loss overwhelms the body's ability to compensate, blood flow and oxygen delivery to the body's vital organs become inadequate and cell and organ function can begin to fail. If enough organs begin to malfunction, the body itself may fail and death can occur. The glow from Neal’s life force was indeed dim.

     However, step by step, the dedicated physicians fought the good fight to rehydrate and stabilize him with electrolyte-enriched intravenous solutions to increase his dangerously low blood pressure. During the course of that treatment, there were expected complications like sporadic heart arrhythmias, seizures, and the ominous threat of kidney failure. Tenaciously, the doctors held on, as did Neal, until, on day three, he opened his eyes.

     Peter was there, pulling a chair beside his partner’s bed. Neal turned his head to stare at him lethargically with dispassionate, half-lidded eyes. He said nothing, so Peter cleared his throat and tentatively waded in.

     “I’m really glad that you’re finally awake, Neal. The doctors tell me that you’ll probably make a full recovery.”

     The young man didn’t answer, turning his head away, and closing his eyes. It was clear that, even in his precarious state, the con man was seeking to gain the upper hand by silently dismissing Peter. It reminded the older man of children’s defense tactics—if they just closed their eyes and did not see you, then you weren’t really there.

     “Neal, we tried so hard to find you. I’m sorry that it took so long, but we really did try,” Peter explained.

     Without opening his eyes, Neal finally answered, his tone bitter and cutting. “Yeah, Mozzie told me about the manhunt.”

     “Neal,” Peter started to respond, but Neal cut him off.

     “I’m really tired Peter, so please go away.”

     Peter suspected that Mozzie had also related, in detail, all of the malicious statements that had come out of Peter’s mouth that day in the interrogation room. The words couldn’t be unsaid, so how did they come back from that? Without a plan, Peter did the only thing he could at the moment. He respected Neal’s wish and left him alone, but he knew that eventually the two of them needed to face their demons and make some kind of peace.

     Two days later, on the afternoon of his second visit to Neal’s room, Peter found the young man seated in a chair by the window. Like it or not, he was a captive audience for the discussion that was about to take place.

     “Neal, we need to talk this thing out that has erected a wall between us,” Peter began his little speech.

     Neal sighed deeply, and then peered at Peter warily. He wondered what new, innovative things needed to be said. Hadn’t both of them said everything already? Nothing had changed. They were still the same two people, each with their own hang-ups and foibles, and he said as much.

     “Peter, I don’t know how talking is going to change anything. We are who we are, and react as we do because of that. Your first instinct when I went missing was that I had run. Did you ever once have the tiniest inkling that maybe I was in trouble?”

     Peter became defensive, the very last thing that he wanted to be right now. “Neal, with the way things were between us, that was the most logical conclusion. You have to see that!”

     “No, Peter, what _you_ have to see is the value of trust. Granted, people’s emotions are complex and unpredictable, but you should never doubt trust. I don’t think that you get that. You have been so busy trying to pigeonhole me into those neat little boxes in your mind that you’ve lost sight of that basic premise. It’s unfair to try to define me by some etched-in-stone checklist of what you think is right under any circumstances. I’m happy that the system works for you, but it loses something in the translation when it pertains to me.”

     “Neal,” Peter quickly retorted, “everybody has to believe in something or else there is chaos, and that is a scary thing.”

     “I believe in myself,” Neal answered quickly. “I know that you love to tell me that I am impulsive and do stupid things that get me into trouble. I prefer to think of it as listening to my heart over the dictates in my head. What I did to save you was because I was listening to my heart, and I’d take the same action over again in a New York minute. I would have done anything necessary to protect you, to rescue you, because you were my friend, and friends always have each other’s backs.

     Peter, we are two very different people, and you cannot reshape me like a piece of clay into a figure that fits into your world. I like who I am, and I’m comfortable in my own skin. I do not want to be somebody else. Don’t you get that? I think that I am a good person, maybe not by your standards, but by mine. When I peer into the mirror, I can look that person in the eye and live with him.”

     Peter had been listening intently and didn’t think that they had ever really been this frank and brutally honest with each other. It was a humbling sensation that sat heavily in his gut.

     “Neal, since we’re putting it all out there, no holes barred, let me offer the only excuse that I have. I was scared, Neal—scared that I was morphing into someone I didn’t know. I was straying so far away from baseline that I didn’t recognize myself anymore. I blamed you, Neal, knowing full well why you did the thing that tore us apart. You used the ‘tools of your trade’ to fix the damage done by your father because of guilt and, yes, because you cared about me. Knowing all of that just reinforced my fear of losing control of my life. Can you understand that at all, Neal?”

     The con man looked at Peter sadly. “Understanding the situation and being able to tolerate it are two very different things. As I have said, neither one of us is willing to change. Any good relationship should be based on faith and acceptance as well as reliance, and I am not sure either one of us is capable of those things now. Maybe the concept of a different handler would be the best thing.”

     Peter shook his head sadly. This new, outspoken person before him was so different from the jumpy and apprehensive young felon that he had dragged out of Sing Sing years ago, and who had followed two steps behind him like a puppy. But then Peter’s mind disagreed—maybe Neal was exactly that same person. Even all those years ago, Neal, at the risk of his own peril, had done misguided things to find and save the young woman that he loved. Unhindered by harsh logic, he had listened to his heart. Peter didn’t need Neal to remind him that would always be the case.

     Finally, Peter placed a hand on Neal’s arm and stared into those unfathomable blue eyes. The by-the-book FBI agent knew that he was willing to try again. Hopefully, Neal would accept that challenge, as well, because Peter realized that having Neal Caffrey in his life was worth it.

 

Epilogue

     Adele Hayworth settled into her bed for the night. Even though her sleep had not been disrupted by dreams with colorful images the past few days, she found her mind turning frequently to the handsome young man with whom she once shared a lunch. He had haunted her dreams when they had come, but now everything remained quiet, and she worried about that because she had no answers or closure. She certainly would not bother the FBI again. Her last attempt to be helpful had been for naught, and had probably taken Agent Burke and his associates away from the search for the CI.

     She let out a deep breath and pulled the blanket over her frail shoulders. She concentrated on the metronome-like quality of the grandfather clock pendulum in the foyer. It was almost hypnotic and helped her to ease into sleep each night. Her REM cycle arrived quickly, a pleasant sensation where Adele could transcend her old, arthritic bones and tired muscles and travel across time and the years of her life. These were her adventures, and she welcomed them.

     Tonight, a beautiful young man held his hand out to her, and she felt that it was Neal. She did not need to see his face. She allowed herself to be pulled into a gentle embrace and was delighted to bask in the warmth of the golden aura that surrounded him. Now Adele knew that he was safe once again, and, most importantly, she also sensed that he had finally achieved a certain peace that comes from enlightened self-acceptance. She smiled softly in her dream state, knowing that contented fulfillment would not be far off for him.


End file.
